


onions

by FabulousPotatoSister



Series: Dancing On the Edge of Infinity [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (is it clear i don't know how to cook?), (only because of the cooking), (this is such a MESS i'm so sorry), Cooking, Crying, F/F, Fluff, Hugging, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulousPotatoSister/pseuds/FabulousPotatoSister
Summary: "Are you crying? Why are you crying?"
Relationships: The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Reader, Thirteenth Doctor/Reader
Series: Dancing On the Edge of Infinity [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534973
Comments: 13
Kudos: 126





	onions

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to add to this series because I haven't added onto it for a while and was also starting to regret making this a series at all, so I wrote this to get my head back in the game. I've got some other Doctor Who fics coming up that aren't part of this series, and maybe a big rewrite of another Doctor Who fic I've already posted. 
> 
> This was inspired by a prompt send by Alex (@timelord-winchester-22b on Tumblr) on the Discord server I'm in! Love you lots.
> 
> Enjoy the fic!

“Welcome back, you guys!”

Yaz gives you a big hug, squeezing you so tight it’s a reminder that she’s a policeman. “I didn’t expect to see you up!”

You’d bumped into the fam as they returned from another adventure with the Doctor and shuffled down the hallways to their rooms in the TARDIS. By  _ bumping into them _ , you actually meant that they found you standing outside your room - which you (technically) weren’t allowed to leave.

After your capture, the Doctor had suggested lots of bedrest so that you could heal. For a while, this was alright - your soft bed and the fact that you were safe on board the TARDIS usually staved the nightmares away, and the Doctor’s constant presence while you slipped in and out of consciousness was enough to keep you very comfortable for a long time. But that bedrest eventually transformed into “indefinite bedrest”. The Doctor, fiercely protective and understandably scared, usually refused to let you move or leave your room, until you managed to convince her that you were  _ mostly  _ fine and that she needed to let you walk around or else you would go absolutely stir-crazy. That worked sometimes.

And then there’s the added factor of the fact that she kissed you while you were still bedridden, and has never mentioned it since.

“Tell you what, I’ve been missing real food,” Graham starts, and Ryan gives his grandfather a suffering look. “The Doc’s been taking us everywhere except places we can actually eat, and when we do get somewhere she usually manages to interrupt before I can get a good bite.”

“Yeah, we’ve all been eating take-out,” Ryan says. “Or the space version of it, I guess. You’re lucky, you actually get to use the kitchen.”

You shift on your feet, amused - but your amusement quickly fades when you put a little too much weight on one of your legs and feel a sharp pain lance up your muscles. You inhale sharply at that, very nearly buckling to your knees at the pain, which slowly becomes a dull ache, radiating from a certain point in your knee.  _ Ah, maybe I forgot to mention that to the Doctor _ .

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” you mutter, reaching out to grip a part of the wall. Yaz looks like she moved forward to catch you, so you shake your head at her, managing a strained grin. “I forget which leg I was stabbed in, sometimes.”

Your attempt to make one of your life-threatening injuries a joke doesn’t land, because of course it doesn’t.

The fam all stare at you, faces drawn. You know that look. They looked at you like that when you were still recovering, when you had burst into tears and sobbed into the Doctor’s arms when you found out exactly how long you were captured, when you had flinched away from Ryan as he celebrated winning a round of a video game, when you had refused to touch the Doctor after you jostled the bandages on your leg. And you hate it - you’re getting better, you hope, day by day, and you’re going to prove it.

“I can make you guys something,” you offer, raising your hands when you feel steady enough to stand on your feet, and try not to feel anxious when Yaz raises her eyebrows, “something from home. If you want, I mean.”

They stay silent after that, exchanging silent looks with one another. You can practically hear what they’re thinking - if it’s safe for you to be in the TARDIS kitchen alone, surrounded by knives and things that burned, or if it’s safe for you to be completely by yourself in the TARDIS at all without the Doctor by your side. If they had voiced their thoughts, you would agree with some of them, especially on the knives and the fire. But cooking was  _ normal _ . It was something you used to do before everything happened. And even among all the adventure of travelling with the Doctor, you could use a little bit of normal. 

So you roll your shoulders back, and try a smile. 

That seems to work, because Graham places a hand on your shoulder and smiles back. The man always had a way of making the fam feel like a  _ family _ , and the action is enough to make your smile wider. “Well, you’d better blow us away, or we’re letting you have some of that space take-out Ryan was talking about.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Thank you,” you say graciously,  _ sincerely _ . Yaz nods her head at you, her eyes crinkling at the edges as her lips curl up into the faintest of smiles.

“No, thank  _ you _ ,” she says, then nods her head to the side. “We’ll wait for you. Come on, Ryan.”

Yaz leads Ryan and Graham away, the sound of their footsteps echoing and eventually disappearing down the amber-colored halls of the TARDIS. 

You sigh again, fishing out your phone from your pocket, and decide to look up some recipes.

A few minutes later, you come to the conclusion that you’re really not an organized person. Standing in the TARDIS kitchen, surrounded by a heap of ingredients that you haphazardly pulled out of the fridge and the pantry, you think to yourself that this is the perfect example of your disorderliness.

After much pacing the TARDIS halls by yourself, phone in hand, you’d eventually decided on a kind of beef stew you had eaten when you were young - your mother had cooked it in soy sauce and lemon juice until it was soft, and you had many fond memories of eating just the sauce over rice when the rest of your family members ate all the meat without you. 

You were surprised to find any ingredients, honestly, in the TARDIS kitchen. You had just been getting by with what the Doctor was giving you in your room, which were presumably things she cooked herself (did she even cook?) or some of the leftover “space take-out” Ryan had been complaining about.

As you hold up a vaguely lemon-shaped plant to the light, you realize that maybe not all the produce is  _ human _ produce. You sniffed the lemon-y plant, scrunching your nose when you come away with the overwhelming acidic smell of citrus. It would have to do.

But thankfully, the TARDIS had onions - which you needed to top the beef stew. Gingerly, you set the onions onto the already overflowing counter, then proceed to sweep the ingredients on the overflowing counter to make space for a cutting board. You try to pick the smallest knife in the cabinet ( _ there aren’t many, anyway _ ). Picking up one of the onions, you steady it on the cutting board and start to slice.

But as soon as your knife breaks through the skin of the onion, the familiar smell hits your nose, and when you start to feel your eyes prickle you groan. Maybe you should have prepared better for this.

You slice rings from the onion, and with every slice, your eyes water more and more. By the time you’ve started slicing the second onion, you have hot tears running down your cheeks. They drip from your chin and onto your cutting board. You think dimly that it must be a health hazard to cry onto your vegetables, but you’re going to cook them so it must be alright.

“Anyone in here?”

You nearly drop your knife.

_ Oh, crap. _ The Doctor’s familiar voice echoes from outside the kitchen. Instead of comforting you like it usually does, her voice makes your stomach drop to your feet. She didn’t know you had gone outside your room, and more importantly you hadn’t asked for her permission. The Doctor was very fond of making up the rules as she went. Maybe this time she would really enforce that “indefinite bedrest”.

You pick up your knife again and push away the other onion rings to make way for the third, and final, onion.  _ Maybe if I ignore her she’ll just go away.  _

The sound of footsteps slowly gets louder and louder, turning from boots hitting a metal floor to boots scuffling onto polished tile. The door to the kitchen noisily swings open, creaking with disuse - which it didn’t do when you opened it, what was that about - and then softly swings shut.

You don’t turn around when the Doctor calls your name. She hasn’t said your name since the last time she left you in your room. Or really spoken to you, for that matter, except for when she has to change the bandages on a few scrapes you have that haven’t really healed. You’re not emotionally hurt, or anything, but you’re just -

The Doctor takes a few steps forward, moving a chair that scrapes against the floor.

“I didn’t expect to see you in here,” she says softly, as if not to startle you. “Honestly, no one really uses the kitchen anymore. The TARDIS usually puts it really far away now.”

You hum, staring at the one onion on your cutting board. It’s almost like it’s mocking you - when the Doctor isn’t around, you seem so confident, but the moment she steps into a room you can’t do  _ anything _ . You can’t even cut a vegetable. You hate to agree with an onion, but for once the vegetable is right. 

However, the thought still sends a hint of anger straight towards your heart. Holding your knife with a bit more force than necessary, you send it straight down onto the onion. You regret that when a single whiff of the cut onion makes a few more tears slip out from your eyes, and when you sniff the Doctor practically runs towards you.

Before you know it, the Doctor has placed her hands on your shoulders and turned you around, and for the first time in a few days you see her face. It hits you that you must look terrible - with tears running down your face and your nose and cheeks red and splotchy - so you quickly try to turn back around. 

The Doctor pauses, quickly taking her hands off your shoulders. She looks like a child who’s just been caught doing something naughty, when it clearly should be the other way around. 

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor gasps. Her shocked expression softens when she notices your tear-stained face. “Are you crying? Why are you crying?”

The Doctor quickly starts to fuss over you, furiously looking you over. She’s not wearing her coat, you notice, when she leans down and you catch a glimpse of her collarbone underneath her shirt. You mentally hit yourself when your mind drifts to thoughts of when she wrapped you in it and if she ever left it in your room.

But the room, unfortunately, still smells of onions, so a few more tears leak out. You sniff again, reaching up to rub your nose, but stop when the Doctor looks up at you.

If there’s ever a time to use the words “puppy-dog eyes”, it’s  _ now _ , because the Doctor had looked up at you so sadly you’re ready to start  _ actually _ crying. Worry lines her beautiful features, and when she takes your hand you feel like you’re going to combust.

_ God, I’ve already kissed this woman and she still manages to make me feel like a little girl with a crush. _

“Are you alright?” the Doctor asks, worriedly. 

You shake your head, the smell of the onions stinging your nose.

“Is this because I haven’t seen you in a few days? It probably is. Oh, I should have put in that “indefinite bedrest” rule, then maybe you wouldn’t be crying right now - or maybe that would make you cry  _ more _ -”

The Doctor had been worried about you many, many times before. It was usually in extremely dire situations, and she was usually very serious when she was worried, but now it’s just…  _ cute _ . Her blonde hair bounces around as she emphatically lists reasons as to why you might be crying, with none of them being any close.

Part of you wants to keep up the charade, because it’s quite cute to see her this worried - then your heart drops when you remember that the last time you had cried was when you were still very much injured and afraid, and that she had looked like she was carrying the weight of the universe when you cried. 

She had very good reason to be worried before, and worry never did look any good on her.

“Doctor,” you try with a laugh, wiping the tears off your face, “I was  _ cutting onions _ .”

Realization dawns on the Doctor’s face, and she lets go of your hand.

“Oh,” she says simply, standing up a little straighter. You see her purse her lips, her eyes glancing to the side - she’s embarrassed, and when you fail to stifle a giggle she actually starts to look  _ offended _ . “Well,  syn-propanethial-S-oxide can be very annoying. I should introduce you to an onion I found on another planet that  _ doesn _ ’ _ t  _ release that chemical irritant when cut. Very convenient for chefs, and - what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sorry,” you say, stepping to the side and showing her the counter you’d been working on. She scrunches her face at the onions, which you unconsciously mimic, because the cutting wasn’t really that good. The Doctor snatches up the weird citrus fruit you’d picked up and whips out her sonic, giving it a good scan before quickly reading the results and putting the fruit back.

“Just checking if that fruit’s poisonous. Which it isn’t. It may have gone a little bad, though.” The Doctor says, still looking at the table. “Can I have some when you’re done?”

“Always,” you say, and you watch as the Doctor goes still and silent. It’s something that she said to you, a long time ago when you asked her if you could go back to your hometown. Something she said before all of  _ everything _ happened. 

The sight of the Doctor with her back turned is practically beckoning you to come closer.

The Doctor was not really a  _ hugging _ person. Sure, she received a few hugs from thankful individuals that you met on your adventures, but she never really hugged you, or the rest of the fam. Even when you were injured she never hugged you, but you had chalked that up to your injuries. 

She doesn’t move when you place a hand on her elbow, though, so you take that as a sign to keep going. When you wrap one of your arms around her waist, you feel her tense up. When you wrap your other arm around her waist, fully hugging her, you think you feel her breathing hitch. 

Sometimes silence speaks louder than words. You can feel the Doctor’s worry practically radiating off her body. You press your face into the Doctor’s back, feeling the soft fabric of her shirt and taking in her scent - which, you discover, is vaguely of honey. The Doctor lifts her hands to lay it over yours. 

“You’re worried,” you whisper.

“How can I not be?” the Doctor asks softly. You feel her stroke your hand with her thumb.

“I’m okay, I’m right here,” you say, “ and I’m  _ getting better _ . Thanks to you.”

The Doctor turns around in your arms. You still have your arms wrapped around her waist, but now that she’s facing you your back hug has turned much more intimate. She lays her hands on your waist, not bringing you any closer but not pushing you away either. 

This was the Doctor, brave and reckless and unique, and she was  _ sad _ .

“You don’t have to be worried.” You smile, unwrapping one of your arms and raising a hand to her face. She doesn’t flinch away at your touch. “It’s just onions.”

“It’s just onions,” she repeats, finally breaking out into a smile. She reaches up to grasp the hand that’s resting on her face, looking both surprised and in awe. 

_ I love you, _ you think, and all you know is that even if you’re not ready to say it yet, you already feel so loved. 


End file.
